Accidentals
by Arianna083
Summary: Accidentals: Signs used in musical notation to alter notes. She hadn't meant for it to happen. Yet now that she's here, in his arms how can she possibly resist? (One-shot, modern, E/C)


_Can't keep my hands to myself..._

~ Selena Gomez

* * *

She hadn't meant to.

Really, it had all been an innocent misunderstanding.

A lapse in the regular rhythm of the universe, completely and utterly beyond her control. A combination of exhaustion, curiosity and a brutally, unexpectedly strong martini followed by champagne.

At least, those would be a few of the more coherent excuses she would undoubtedly hurl at herself once she stopped kissing him.

Stopped kissing her _professor._

 _Oh, god._

But he tasted too good, a tantalizing mixture of everything forbidden and strange. It felt strange kissing him, and never had that emotion felt so right. Her senses were enthralled, saturated by his scent, his closeness, his mouth. She needed more. The craving was unbearable, and before she had time to realize the gravity of her indiscretion she was tracing the slightly uneven shape of his bottom lip with her tongue.

 _Oh holy Mary. Did this constitute licking? How would she ever be able to admit in daylight, to anyone especially herself, that she had consciously licked him!?_ What evil instincts were at work, what obviously latent genetic imperative had convinced her that this was a sound, logical idea?

Her brain supplied no answer, for a low gravelly rumble at that precise moment issued from his chest, seeping into her skin and reverberating down her spine to settle in the pit of her stomach. A rush of intense pleasure guided her without thought, and she found herself arching closer, slanting her mouth across his desperately. He had _growled_ at her. That absolved her of any responsibility, right? She'd claim temporary insanity.

 _Hormones. Hormones are lethal, deadly things that remind you of the mildly disturbing crush you had on the Beast, and how you were kinda disappointed when he turned into an alarmingly shiny, sparkly prince at the end—!_

Large, calloused hands were now cupping the back of her head. Gentle, yet deceptively forceful. She should stop. She should claim what was left of her dignity, and possibly a blunt instrument to knock him out with, and _run._

Of course this was precisely when she had the brilliant, inspired idea to straddle his lap.

Arms wrapping around his neck instinctively, her mouth opened more fully as she hungrily continued to ravish his sensuous, spellbinding lips.

They weren't the most beautiful lips she had ever seen. In fact, they were one of the many strange things about him that defied most aesthetic convention. They were rather thin and misshapen—much like the rest of his unnaturally gangly body—but it was the ever-present rigid line they were usually set in that had begun to fascinate her. At first, she assumed this was just his natural state; sardonic and bad-tempered. A consummate grump.

Then, somehow over the past several months of being nearly always in his company, she realized his lips hid an entire repertoire she would have never believed could exist.

And this was all their fault, really. The way they grinned that rarest, enigmatic half-smile when he teased her; or formed the most charming shapes when he spoke to her in that impossibly deep, dangerously addictive voice. He had a habit of pursing them when befuddled by the daily social interactions of people, or when he was about to say something endearingly awkward.

It was a completely unexpected byproduct of their often explosive chemistry, this growing fascination to the point where she found herself admiring the rugged (if not boney) jut of his chin when they were arguing—and at the beginning, they had argued more often than not. It drove her crazy, his stubborn narrow-sightedness, his arrogance combined with a merciless sense of conviction that he simply _knew everything_.

What made the entire situation all the more infuriating was that to a certain extent, he did. He _was_ a genius, and she had been brave enough, or perhaps just frustrated enough to talk back and stand up to the most dreaded professor in her faculty. Even those who were not in her department had heard the horror stories.

 _He's always there, in the auditorium. Have you seen his mask? They call it a prosthetic. I hear he was some kind of government spy, or maybe he was in some kind of freak accident? He refuses to teach anywhere else but on the stage. Some people swear he lives beneath it, in a dark dungeon where he strings up students who are unfortunate enough to fail his classes._

Christine, like all the rest had been intimidated beyond belief by his mere presence which seemed to always cast a dark, menacing shadow —at first. Then, one day when he was singling her out in front of a full class of her peers, dark eyes cold and disdainful, his words like acid melting away all her dreams and promises—it happened. Something broke, like a dam had been released within her.

She could still remember the look of stunned incomprehension on his usually impassive face as she stood, trembling with anger and humiliation, reaming him out in a voice that must have carried all the way to the furthest balconies. She said (or rather shouted) things at him that day she had never said to another living soul—not out loud at least, and in the midst of a full audience—and it was one of the most freeing experiences of her life.

To everyone's astonishment, most of all hers, he hadn't evicted her from his classes or strung her up in the rumored dungeon. Instead that single moment in time, when she had reamed out one of the most feared professors in her University, had set her life on a course she could never have expected. And though they still argued, lately she had begun to realize that the irrepressible tension that wound through her body, impulsively demanding she always get that last word, rising to any challenge he set, reveling in seeing just how far she could push him—was more than just a need to prove him wrong.

It was passionate; a prelude that had always threatened... _this_.

How inevitable had this outcome been and how naïve was she to not have recognized the signs? Apparently, she was just as stubborn and socially inept as he was, if not more so. Thank goodness then, for champagne. How many glasses had they had?

Completely lost in the blissful release of her inhibitions, she focused all her attention on gently biting his lower lip, exploring its form, drawing it into her mouth and tasting it. Just when she thought dizzily that she couldn't possibly do something more inappropriate, the sound of his helpless groan as she settled her weight fully into his lap resounded around them, a sound of utter surrender that bypassed the alcohol buzzing in her veins and proved _this_ was true intoxication. He was her champagne, all sharp angles and hard planes which mirrored his nature perfectly she realized with a rush of fondness.

She felt so incredibly soft against him, the perfect counterpoint.

Never in her life had she felt more desirable, to feel him fairly quake beneath her. Her hands wound their way into his inky hair while his own infinitely larger ones slipped from behind her head to wrap about her waist, pulling her further into his lap until she could feel a very hard, angular reality beneath her.

Pure instinct guided her as she moved ever so slightly against that part of him that left no doubt in her mind that he did feel, and want. Icy stoicism aside, she had managed to crack the façade even more widely. It was both gratifying and maddening. For an instant, his body froze, chest rising and falling raggedly as he breathed into her mouth, unable it seemed for the moment to move.

Drawing her hands out of his normally immaculate hair, she cupped his face on a whim. She couldn't have fathomed what made her do it, yet she felt compelled to reassure him. Comfort him. Sliding her hands from his face, she sought his which were still gripping her waist, holding them utterly still. Taking his hands in hers, she guided them up the curve of her waist, arching against him ever so gently as she did.

She felt him suddenly grip her to excess and in one smooth motion he rose up to meet her, seeking more friction, his arms a steely vice around her. His strength was shocking.

For a moment apprehension and desire mixed together, indecipherable. Some inner restraint seemingly snapped within him; he virtually attacked her mouth, bruising, taking, all at once ungainly and totally unconcerned with tenderness. It should have frightened her, yet this recklessness she hadn't realized simmered beneath her skin burned all pretense to ashes. It only took a moment before she met his ferocity with her own, matching him as he plunged his tongue within her mouth, stroke for stroke. It was then that she decided when he wasn't singing, _this_ was her new favourite use for his thin, scarred lips. Breath seemed a distant need, for they were breathing each other, half-formed words and sounds tumbling forth. Softly, she heard herself say his name on a breathy exhalation.

Had she ever dreamed she could sound like this? Part of her didn't even recognize the throaty plea as her own. It was only when she felt his irresistibly rich voice rumble back against her lips that some part of her hazy brain knew the full extent of her mistake in allowing this to happen.

" _Ma cherié...Je suis à vous_..."

That voice...despite trying to convince herself at first that it was just another irritatingly pompous aspect of his infinite ego, she had always secretly found his accent devastatingly attractive, and to hear him speak like _this_ to her in his native tongue— _tongue_ , swirling against her throat, lips claiming the delicate skin just beneath her ear—teeth, scraping and ravishing, his husky words, his hands now cupping her face tenderly while he bit and breathed endearments into her neck...

The world spun, but she remained anchored. Tethered to him utterly. Or was that just because he held her head gently, rolling it between his large palms, fingers buried in her hair so he could access the full column of her throat? She felt her head tip back, her limbs completely malleable to his every whim.

A kiss on the cheek. That was how this had all been hurtled into motion. She had been watching him speak, or rather stutter as he had praised her performance, his usually eloquent if not slightly eccentric composure deserting him completely.

And everything about him in that moment had been so irresistible.

After months of tension, daydreams and fantasies she had simply followed her heart. _Kiss him. Kiss him now!_

He had been in the middle of a sentence. Something about getting some rest, to be careful she didn't strain herself. His tender concern stirred an irrepressible ache deep in her belly. He had reached out a tentative finger and lightly, just as she had seen him caress the strings of his violin countless times, traced the side of her jaw. He had pulled his hand back quickly, yet before there could be any thought of inappropriate behaviour she was rising onto her tiptoes and pressing a less-than seductive kiss to his cheek.

Technically, there had been some navigational issues no doubt encouraged by the alcohol she so rarely consumed, and her kiss had landed on the very corner of his mouth—and for once, he had been rendered completely speechless. No quip or self-deprecating comeback. No sarcastic arrows to sling. Just utter, undignified shock.

His expression had been priceless; the urge to then quickly press her mouth against his before the spell was broken entirely irresistible. From there, she could do nothing but be swept along with the tide as her entire world had spiraled unerringly down the rabbit hole.

He was now sliding her comfy, worn out _Bowie_ t-shirt off one shoulder, his mouth descending further and further while he spoke in ragged breaths and disjointed words, something about her skin being just as soft as he'd thought...w _ait, he's thought about my skin?_ So many questions, so much sensation dragging her down, down... _oh—_ and to her delight, she suddenly discovered a new favourite use for his mouth.

If she were Alice, then he was undoubtedly her Mad-Hatter, Cheshire cat and blood-thirsty tyrant all rolled into one.

Her Erik.

 _Hers._

Christine knew it was hopeless. They were so very different, polar opposites really. She knew there would be consequences.

" _Love me."_

And all the saints and angels help her, she already did.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :) Just a distraction, I hope you enjoyed!  
**


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